Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

      ‘…and arguing about the phone! I’m just not prepared to live the student life again,’ I shuddered.

      ‘But Rose,’ said Bea slowly, ‘you never did.’ This was true. I was set to read Art History at Sussex, but flunked my ‘A’ levels: as I say, I had a shock at eighteen.

      ‘We think you should get a flatmate,’ the twins repeated, in unison.

      ‘Absolutely not,’ I replied.

      The following morning I received this.

       Dear Rose, I have a problem which is bothering me and I’m wondering if you can help. One of my most valued customers has greatly exceeded her overdraft. The debt is currently £3,913.28 against agreed borrowing of £2,000. I don’t want to be too heavy about it because I know that she’s just moved house. But at the same time I feel that she ought to try and sort out her finances a bit. As you can imagine, I’m much too embarrassed to mention this to her myself so was wondering if you could help. Do you have any suggestions as to how this important client of mine might reduce her debt? Thank you so much for your advice in this delicate matter, Rose, and I look forward to your reply. Yours truly, Alan Drew (Branch Manager), Nat West Bank, Ashford. P.S. Please do not print.

      Holy shit! Nearly four grand! That did it. The twins were right.

      Dear Mr Drew, I wrote. Thank you for your recent letter and I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been having this problem with such a valued customer. How thoughtless of her to let things get out of hand like that! As it happens I do have an idea which I’ll discuss with her, and I’m confident that her debt will soon be reduced.

      I sealed it, stamped it and posted it, then phoned the Camberwell Times.

      When I opened the paper on Saturday morning and turned to the House and Flatshare column I found that my ad had been condensed, like a Cortina in a car-crusher, into the impenetrable hieroglyphics of the classifieds.

      SE5. Lge O/R in lux hse nr trans/shps/pk.

      Suit prof sgle n/s M/F. £350 p.c.m. inc.

      Refs. Tel: [phone]

      I wasn’t at all sure that the ‘hse’ could honestly be described as ‘lux’. ‘Lux’ suggests marble floors and a gold-tapped jacuzzi, but the woman at the paper said I’d get a better response. And I was just reading the ad again, and wondering what kind of replies I’d get when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a small parcel, addressed to Ms B. McDonald, so I went next door to drop it in. The McDonalds’ letter box however seemed to be slightly narrower than mine and I couldn’t get the thing to go through. I didn’t want to push too hard in case I damaged it, so I smoothed down my hair, then pressed the bell.

      Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the curtain twitch, then suddenly the door opened. Standing there was a large yellow Labrador with paws like tea plates and a suspicious expression on its face. I shuddered slightly as I don’t really like dogs; and I was bracing myself for the thing to launch itself at me, barking and slobbering like Cerberus, when something quite different happened. It trotted up to me, took the parcel out of my hand, then went back inside, carefully shutting the door.

      Feeling first and foremost surprised, but also somehow vaguely rebuffed, I turned to leave. But as I put my hand on the gate I heard rapid tapping on the window pane, then the front door opened again. There was Gnasher once more, and behind him, in a wheelchair, a very pretty dark-haired woman of about thirty-five.

      ‘Hello, I’m Beverley,’ she smiled. ‘You’re our new neighbour aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes, I am. Thanks for the card by the way. I’m Rose.’

      ‘And this is Trevor,’ she said, indicating the dog. ‘Say hello to Rose, Trev.’

      ‘Woof!’

      ‘This is Trevor McDonald?’ I said, wonderingly. ‘Oh.’ Trevor wagged his tail. ‘I was just dropping in your packet,’ I explained. ‘It was delivered to me by mistake.’

      ‘Well, why don’t you come in? I promise we won’t bite – or at least Trevor won’t!’

      And before I could manufacture an excuse because I was sure she was just being polite, Trevor had nipped behind me, ushered me inside, and then jumped up to shut the front door. I followed Beverley as she wheeled herself down the carpeted hallway into the kitchen which, like mine, is large, with pale wooden units and a dining area covered by a glass conservatory roof. Beverley filled the kettle then asked me how I was settling in, and told me that she’d been ‘living in Hope,’ as she put it, for three and a half years.

      ‘Do you live here on your own?’ I asked as she spun back and forth executing nifty three point turns. I noticed that she was wearing cycling gloves and wondered why.

      ‘No, I live here with Trev. He’s my partner. Aren’t you darling?’ He reached up and licked her ear. ‘Tea or coffee?’

      ‘Er, coffee please.’

      ‘Get it will you Trev?’ Trevor opened a lower cupboard by tugging on a cord attached to the handle, then, tail wagging, he pulled out a small jar of Nescafé, passed it to Beverley, then shut the door.

      ‘Do you know this area?’ she enquired as I stared at the dog who was staring, enraptured, at her.

      ‘Er, no, no I don’t actually,’ I replied absently. ‘I lived in Putney before.’

      ‘Where exactly?’

      ‘Blenheim Road.’

      ‘Ooh, that’s posh. Big, smart houses.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said ruefully. ‘They are.’

      ‘So what brought you to Camberwell?’

      ‘My…circumstances changed.’

      ‘You mean you’ve split up with someone?’

      ‘Ye-es…’

      ‘So what happened?’ What happened? The cheek!

      ‘Well, I…’

      ‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing, ‘don’t tell me. I’m a nosy parker – it’s boredom you see.’

      ‘I don’t mind telling you,’ I suddenly said, disarmed by her candour. ‘My husband had an affair.’

      ‘Oh dear.’

      ‘Yes. Oh dear. Exactly. So I’m separated, pending divorce.’

      ‘How long were you married?’

      How short, rather. ‘Erm…a bit less than a year.’

      ‘I see…So do you know anything about Camberwell?’ she asked, sensing my discomfiture.

      ‘Not much. I just liked the house.’

      ‘In that case I’ll give you the gen. Camberwell was so called because it had lots of wells in the area, one of which was visited by the sick and crippled for a cure. Not that it’s done me much good!’ she exclaimed with a tinkling laugh. ‘In the eighteenth century it was just meadows and streams and it gave the Camberwell Beauty butterfly its name and it also inspired Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song”. But in the nineteenth century it became more and more built up and it’s been pretty much downhill since then. But it’s still got lots going for it. We certainly like it, don’t we Trev? Milk? The up side,’ she added as Trevor passed her the carton, ‘is the lovely Georgian architecture and the parks. The downside is the lack of decent shops, the wail of police sirens and the incessant screaming of car alarms.’

      I found it hard to concentrate on what Beverley was telling me as I was still mesmerised by the dog. The washing machine, which had been spinning away, had now stopped. Trevor pushed on the catch with his nose, opened the door, and was now pulling out the damp clothes with his teeth.

      ‘Thanks